


Bough-ing to Pressure

by WizzKiz



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is a cuddle-monster, Athos is a wine-hoarder, Cotton Candy Fluff, Eventual compilation of drabbles and one-shots, Gen, Porthos is a mud-wearer, The Weather is a Cruel Mistress, d'Artagnan is a miserable-pup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizzKiz/pseuds/WizzKiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where the nights are cold and the rain is colder, and Porthos and Aramis wield affection like Athos wields a sword – indomitable and endearing. If you want to squint, it's as much slash as you want, or it's just the boys being ridiculously fluffy and tactile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bough-ing to Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! First things first, if you're coming to this because you've been wondering where I've been lately: I apologise! It was my birthday this month and it's kept me busy. I've also had complete writer's block with 'L'appel du Devoir' and 'Chaotic Howling', it's been awful.
> 
> All I've had in my head are drabbles and one-shots, so... Have some some fluffy ridiculousness as my consolation prize.

 

"I am  _so_ tired," d'Artagnan whined, slouched over in his saddle looking like he had been forced to ride in the unforgiving rain for days.

 _Oh,_ Athos realised belatedly, they had.

Time passed strangely on the road when the weather was so bad that days and nights just seemed to meld into one, gruelling expanse of grey.

"Then nap, we'll wake you if we find an inn," Aramis offered helpfully, and bravely withstood a bedraggled d'Artagnan's truly scathing glare.

"And fall off my horse and have you laugh at me, no thank you!"

"Again," Porthos clarified with a bright grin that was only partly hidden by the sodden mass of his hat. "Fall off, into the mud, 'n' laugh at you,  _again_."

D'Artagnan's scowl could have rivalled a hellhound's. "I'm still finding dirt in my shoes,  _in_ them," he cried affrontedly, and muttered curses when Porthos' laugh boomed through the dismal murk.

Athos reasoned that perhaps it was time for him to intervene before they did themselves any serious mischief. "I did tell you to lash yourself to the saddle."

"Porthos would have just untied it," Aramis called, and gave a surprised bark of laughter when Porthos leaned over to shove his shoulder. "If I fall, see if I share my bedroll with you, tonight."

"Wouldn't want to anyway," Porthos pretended to sniff, affecting a look that Athos was fairly certain was copied straight off of Aramis. "You're all damp."

"No shit," d'Artagnan growled grumpily, and Athos had to hide his smile.

They were all fools, but he silently adored them. It was always amusing to watch d'Artagnan shuck his ever-excited enthusiasm to reveal the grouch that he was when it rained.

Porthos made a good point though; at least now Athos wouldn't be guilt-tripped into the nightly huddle as the rain had seeped through their flesh and made them all irritable.

Even now his skin felt clammy, and the thought of Porthos' incessant snoring and bear hugs made him shudder in fond revulsion. And he was including Aramis' happy murmurs and relentless cuddles in that damp nightmare.

Affection shouldn't come so easily to such brilliant soldiers, but Aramis and Porthos put the most adoring of women to shame.

Even d'Artagnan, when he wasn't wriggling like a fish, didn't turn his nose up at Porthos' natural tendency to give off heat like a brazier.

"Athos," d'Artagnan's plea came from his side as the boy pulled up with the most pitiful of expressions on his rain-sluiced face. "Please can we stop for the night?"

"What if there's an inn ahead?" he asked, maintaining his serious tone for all d'Artagnan's whining made him want to laugh.

"What if?" d'Artagnan cried exasperatedly, "What if? I could die of pneumonia before all of the 'what if' questions were even thought about!"

Porthos turned to frown at the sky. "An inn might be better, ain't gonna get a fire goin' in this."

"I have wine?" he offered, and the three of them reined in immediately.

As he was assailed with cries of outrage and betrayal for hiding this, apparently, treacherous secret of his, they herded him off into the woods until they found a clearing. Dismounting was at once a relief and a tragedy, because all too soon, the horses were fed and drying, whilst they were still miserable.

They clustered under the largest tree, its heavy boughs laden down with water-logged leaves that threatened to spill at any given moment.

In the meantime, it was shelter, and it kept the wine dry. He drew out two bottles and contemplated them carefully, wondering how long they would last and finding the results… unfavourable.

"Honestly, Athos, you are unfair," Aramis said while pouting, but he was long used to it.

That was, until Aramis sighed heavily, and then he felt a little stirring of guilt in his chest and thrust one of the bottles at his friend. Aramis' smile was ridiculously sunny almost immediately, so he raised an eyebrow and explained wryly, "I knew that were I to tell you all, you would drink it before we needed it."

"We  _did_ need it," Porthos explained, snatching the bottle off of a contented Aramis, "Over the last three days we've needed it."

"Yes, and think how disappointed you would be if I had let you drink it three days ago, rather than now?"

D'Artagnan tilted his head to the side in consideration and accepted Athos' bottle. "Good point."

"Shut up," Porthos ordered, but it was with a smile and an affectionate cuff to the back of the boy's head. D'Artagnan swatted him away and grinned when Porthos almost overbalanced to dodge it.

In seconds, Aramis had caught his eye, he nodded, looked to d'Artagnan, and as one they pushed Porthos on the chest. Aramis quickly grabbed the bottle of wine before it was lost to the mud, as Porthos was about to be.

His bellow was lost in a crack of thunder, and their peals of laughter were the echoing rumbles.

Porthos fell in a splatter, his already dirty cloak disappearing into the squelching puddle under their feet. He lay there, amazed, blinking the rain out of his eyes for a few seconds too long and Aramis stepped forward in concern.

He and d'Artagnan each took a large step back.

Aramis was on his feet one moment and sprawled on Porthos' chest the next, his hat tumbling to the ground. With a self-righteous squawk, Aramis scrambled to get up, but Porthos tugged him back with one hand and drove his muddy fingers through Aramis' curls with the other.

"Aramis is going to kill him," d'Artagnan predicted with a wise grin, and they snickered to themselves when Aramis raised one tentative hand to his hair and then yelled at the atrocity. Streaks of brown marred his tan skin and he pushed Porthos further into the ground as he tried to stand.

"If you have ruined my hat, Porthos, I will  _never_ forgive you!"

"Aw, c'mon, my cloak's a lost cause."

"Your cloak is  _meant_ to get dirty!"

Porthos' grin was considerably flecked with mud as Aramis angrily flicked him with it, dragging bits from his hair and smearing them over Porthos' face. Athos, from his safe distance, raised an eyebrow at them and murmured, "Now, now-"

He instinctively slid behind d'Artagnan when the two of them turned to look at him, well acquainted with that air of mischief. D'Artagnan flinched and then froze, something like a high-pitched keening soon coming from the boy's throat.

He leaned around d'Artagnan to see two globules of mud coating his front, one spattered up his neck and over the dried dirt from his earlier fall.

Athos snorted, and then instantly regretted it.

"No, wait," he said quickly and held his hands up, confronted with three pairs of narrowed eyes. He backed up, gaze darting between slowly moving hands until bark bumped his back. "Shit."

"Athos," Aramis chided in a tone far too saccharine considering he was wielding a palmful of mud, "It isn't like you to swear."

"I am not often backed into a corner, either," he replied dryly, watching d'Artagnan crouch to scoop up an outrageous amount of dirt. "I have more wine?"

"You're only mentionin' this  _now_?" Porthos asked in amazement, and then shook his head in reprimand. "This is for keepin' secrets, Athos."

"And for laughing at me when I fell off my horse!" D'Artagnan said hotly.

"And for just being generally aloof,  _mon ami_ ," Aramis said with an unapologetic shrug.

There was nowhere for him to run, and soon he was covered from head to toe in a thick coating of brown that seemed to weigh twice as much as it should. He tried to slick it from his hands to no avail, giving their chuckling forms his most severe of looks.

It didn't subdue them.

"Lemme help you with that," Porthos said, and then threw a rock at the tree limbs above him.

Stupidly, ever so stupidly, he looked up, and was met with a faceful of water as Porthos' throw dislodged the laden leaves.

D'Artagnan whooped, Aramis laughed, and Porthos took a seated bow from the floor.

"I refuse to share any more of my wine with you reprobates," he spurned, shaking his head thoroughly and smirking when d'Artagnan yelped at the flicked mud.

"Don't make this any worse, Athos," Aramis crooned, his fingers disappearing into the ground again.

"Fine," he growled and strode over to him. He crouched down and pretended to steady himself with one hand, but then used it to pat Aramis on the cheek, leaving one brown hand-print and taking the second bottle back.

Aramis blinked in astonishment and then cried, "It's in my  _beard_!"

Porthos reached for Aramis' chin with both hands and kissed him square on the mouth, an imprint of muddy hands on his own cheeks now. "Suits you," he said with a lewd grin.

Aramis' anger deflated, his lip tugging upwards into a charming smile briefly, but he still scowled at them when d'Artagnan helped them all up.

"Monsters, all of you."

D'Artagnan ignored Aramis, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the mud from his neck. "Can we set up camp now?"

Athos passed the wine to a pouting Aramis and then simply stared at d'Artagnan. "But I'm covered in mud."

Porthos chuckled, "Not much you can do about that, mate, we're in the middle of nowhere."

"But I'm covered in mud."

Aramis arched an entertained eyebrow at him over his bottle. "How exactly do you plan on remedying that?"

He blinked at them each in turn, they were all as filthy as him but they didn't seem that concerned.

"But-"

"You're covered in mud," d'Artagnan sighed, "Yes, we know."

"Just get some rest, Athos," Aramis yawned, perching his wet hat jauntily on his dirty curls, "We'll sort it out in the morning."

"Whenever that is," Porthos added dubiously, glancing at the threatening clouds.

They were black, and moody, and miserable, and Athos rather understood how they felt.

"I have to clarify," he said slowly, "You expect me to  _sleep_ like this?"

"Yes," they said in unison.

"Preposterous."

"It's happening," Porthos said matter-of-factly, and d'Artagnan nodded as if there were no other way around it.

Aramis slung an arm around his stunned shoulders and led him further into the trees, where it seemed just as damp to Athos. "It will be fine, we'll string the cloaks up in the boughs and make a little tent."

That shook him out of his astonishment. "I am  _not_ sleeping with you."

"Athos, my dear," Aramis sang softly, completely belied by the wicked amusement in his eyes, "You'll catch your death otherwise."

"I will start a fire," he said adamantly, and Porthos chuckled at him.

"It'll be a very wet, smoky fire."

"You are taking far too much enjoyment from this predicament," he reprimanded, but Porthos just grinned unabashedly.

"'Course not, I'm takin' just the right amount."

"Give me my wine back," he ordered, snatching the bottle back that had somehow found its way to Porthos' hands.

"Tetchy when you need a bath, ain't ya?"

"I am  _not_ tetchy, I just have a healthy disregard for…  _discomfort._ "

Aramis was still around his shoulders and crooned against his ear, "Come now, Athos, you'll be comfortable before long."

"Yes, I will," he agreed and shrugged Aramis off to lift his nose into the air and add, "For I am going to find an inn."

"Like Hell you are, you'll get lost," Porthos muttered, and pushed him towards the biggest tree. D'Artagnan was there when he stumbled and Athos couldn't help but feel that this had all been planned against him, somehow.

"Are you condoning this?" he asked d'Artagnan incredulously, and the boy shrugged noncommittally.

"I'm tired, I'm not going to be a part of this tent thing but-"

"Oh, yes, you are," Aramis said with a smug nod, and pushed them both closer to the tree.

"I will not be manhandled by you two tactile fools," he said haughtily, but settled a little when he remembered that he had wine in his hand. It was kept warm by their constant pawing, at least.

"We tactile fools have kept you from freezing countless times," Aramis laughed.

"Yeah, remember in Melun?" Porthos supplied cooperatively, matching Aramis' grin.

"And when we were outside port at Calais."

"That time near the mountains."

D'Artagnan had started to relent, he saw it, but the boy was his only team mate and so he swiftly replied with, "And how often have we found an inn around the next corner?"

D'Artagnan raised a damning eyebrow. "There's nothing around for miles, Athos."

"Weak," he growled, but the three of them just smirked at him. He threw his hands up, keeping one wrapped tightly around his wine. "Fine, but I reserve the right to stab one of you at any given opportunity."

"Of course,  _mon ami_ ," Aramis said soothingly, but there was a satisfied glint in his eye that Athos sniffed at.

He needed more wine.

"And I'm not sharing my wine."

The three of them looked at each other, Aramis' attention returning first, wide eyes and beseeching. "But it's very cold."

When he simply stared at them, Porthos shrugged, and leaped for him. Suddenly he was on the floor, damp leaves against his back and a snickering d'Artagnan sitting on his feet.

"It's for your own good, Athos," Aramis called out delightedly as he rifled through his saddlebags. "You'll wake up tomorrow feeling ridiculously refreshed."

"All I feel now is restrained," he growled, only half-trying to dislodge Porthos' steely grip on his arms. There was no point in struggling when they had fixated on an idea, and unfortunately it was on him.

Aramis' delight turned into one of amused outrage. "Athos, how on earth do you manage to keep so much wine in here?"

"You carry the medical supplies, do you not?" he responded nonchalantly, ignoring Porthos' grin as he leaned over him. "I carry the wine."

"But so  _much_ of it?"

"I don't recall you ever complaining of having too much wine."

"I'm not," Aramis said swiftly, and began pulling bottle after bottle out, "But honestly…"

Porthos' grip relaxed as he stared in amazement, and Athos took the moment to send both he and d'Artagnan sprawling. There was a moment where Porthos looked ready to tackle him again, but then Aramis threw him some wine and Athos was happy to simply uncork it.

Decisions were made so much easier with alcohol on hand.

"I will lie next to Porthos," he conceded, and Porthos flashed Aramis a victorious grin.

"It's 'cause you fidget."

"Please," Aramis scoffed, "We all know that you're going to fall asleep half on top of me which will mean Athos can be grumpy but warm on the edge, thinking that he's won."

Athos shrugged, trying vainly to hide his smile. "This was a compromise, not an overwhelming conquest."

As they bickered good-naturedly, he looked up to see d'Artagnan shivering and eyeing the blanketed horses with some sort of envy.

Athos was long used to Aramis and Porthos' cuddly natures, but d'Artagnan was still surprised by how easily they grounded each other with affection. It had taken them an absurdly short time to get  _him_ used to it, d'Artagnan was even easier in comparison.

"C'mon," Porthos called out to him, but d'Artagnan hesitated.

Aramis turned his charming smile into something friendlier. "You know we'll just bundle you up if you fall asleep over there."

D'Artagnan turned then, an expectant look on his face that barely covered his amusement. Porthos took one threatening step and d'Artagnan scuttled over. "Okay, okay," he said, and then gave Aramis a wary eye that made them all chuckle. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Do be quiet," Aramis said fondly, scruffled d'Artagnan's hair, and threw himself to the floor. "You know, beds are nice, but there's something to be said for the outdoors."

"That is because you are a heathen, Aramis," Athos commented snootily, but felt his lip twitch when Aramis simply beamed at him from his bed of leaves and blankets.

Porthos sent d'Artagnan along the tree boughs to tie the knots, who took great delight in sprinkling water on them occasionally and pretending that it was an accident. Aramis set up what looked like a small wall of wine between them and the outside world, whilst Athos simply wondered when he had become such a pushover.

Porthos nudged him with his shoulder and Athos leaned into it quite without thinking.

He felt a stupidly fond smile on his lips, and when he passed a yawning d'Artagnan a bottle of wine, he saw one on the boy's face too.

Ridiculous.

He had to admit though, as he fell off to sleep with Porthos' warm back against his, and d'Artagnan curled up next to Aramis' side, there was something to be said about sleeping outdoors.

The heavy rain washed out Porthos' snores, Aramis' murmuring, and d'Artagnan's wriggling. And when he couldn't get comfortable and rearranging his cloak did nothing, he found that Porthos' sleepy snarl and heavy arm over his waist was surprisingly comforting.

The last thing he saw was the hefty boughs of the tree keeping them safe from the rain, and then he slept straight through 'til morning.

In the bright sunshine of the next day, the skies so blue it was as if they had never heard of the word 'storm', they saw a brightly coloured inn not a hundred yards down the road. They chuckled at his attempt at irritation, ate a hearty meal, and then he restocked his depleted stores of wine.

That night, when d'Artagnan gave him a questioning look, he matched the boy's smile, nodded easily, and they camped outside again.

It wasn't even raining.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably turn into one of those "compilation fics" where I just add a new chapter whenever I have a new Musketeers idea, so please comment/kudos and let me know if you like this one or want to read more (perhaps you have a prompt I might like?). I adore each of you, thanks for reading!
> 
> Alexandre Dumas owns the men, BBC owns the boys, the fluff belongs to me.


End file.
